


rule of threes, that's the tea

by lalalyds2



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Caught in the Act, Copious amounts of tea, F/F, Sibling Incest, Spellcest, Spellcest Prompt Challenge, i dunno how to tag this other than tea, like seriously so much tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 15:06:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17900417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalalyds2/pseuds/lalalyds2
Summary: In this fic, there are tea ceremonies and interrupted moments between sisters.That's pretty much it.(Written for—if barely within the parameters of—the together-as-sisters fic challenge for "Caught in the Act.")I tried fam, I tried. ;p





	rule of threes, that's the tea

During the three hundred centuries the Ming Dynasty reigned imperial, the ceremony for Gong Fu-cha was invented.

Tea making turned tea performing. Love and deference in hosting.

Loose leaf tea in the gaiwan, handle less pot steeped in an instant.

Luxury sipped from blue and white porcelain.

The ceremony goes like this:

Hot water poured to wake the leaves, the pot poured out to wake the cups. Everything poured out once more, no one drinks this waking, waiting moment.

Hot water poured again, steeped to time. The tea will come in small, infused waves.

The first infusion is bitter and dark, not usually gifted to honored guests, but perhaps given to one’s enemy. They will smile at the host, as it’s convention to accept first serve, but their tongue will dry from too-strong tea.

The second infusion is perfectly tempered, warmth without weakness, artful taste without astringency. If the host proves selfish (as they’re often inclined), the perfect round of tea will be kept all theirs.

The third infusion is soft and clinging, enough to enjoy but not quite satisfy. This round is left for the wives and lesser friends.

There can be many rounds, many infusions, but third round often signals an end.

Endings are most important, however, because they represent the pause before new beginnings.

 

~*~

 

Zelda learns the Gong Fu-cha ceremony during her travels.

She stays in Nanjing, gets the paper every day, doesn’t miss coffee, and receives a letter promptly every second Tuesday.

She scoffs as she sips oolong, Hilda’s sloping cursive dripping images into her morning tea.

Hilda prefers English breakfast, a spot of cream and two sugars. Crushed leaves in a factory bag, Twining’s brand printed on every label.

When Zelda starts tasting milk and Earl Grey in her Darjeeling, she knows she needs to start a new batch of infusions.

Unbidden, Hilda-visions pop into her tea times more and more, waking thoughts that will not be put to bed again, till nearly every session is interrupted by longing.

She hopes it does not become a pattern.

It does.

She stops reading Hilda’s letters (shoves them to the bottom of her trunk and refuses to get rid of them) and hopes that is that.

When Hilda’s laugh hisses from the steam of her jasmine, she stops drinking tea altogether.

She misses it.

But if it means she will stop seeing her sister (who she decidedly does _not_ miss), she will bear the loss.

She is determined not to have even a sipful of tea until the one who haunts her cup is physically across from her.

Maybe then she’ll finally be able to drink in peace.

 

~*~

 

The reunion tea with Hilda is bitter and doesn’t meet expectations.

She should not be so disappointed.

It had been so good to see her sister again, she’d felt so much like home in her arms.

It hadn’t lasted very long.

She blames Hilda, because to do otherwise is simply preposterous.

Zelda can’t quite pinpoint the exact moment that had caused such outrage in her person, such violence in her spirit.

Perhaps it had been when Hilda had laughed and said it felt weird to share a room with her sister again. Perhaps it had been when she’d casually mentioned a girlfriend she’d left waiting and heartbroken in the UK (hadn’t even been a witch. Had been a pretty little mortal who’d held Hilda’s hand and blushed like a strawberry and kissed like someone innocent).

Perhaps it had been when Hilda was caught snooping in Zelda’s trunk, holding the hoarded and unopened letters to her chest and quietly weeping because her sister had not missed her at all.

Her tears had smudged the unread print into indecipherable pulp.

Zelda had put her in the ground for it. 

She has the gaiwan full and waiting for Hilda as she rises from the dirt.

They sip the first infusion on the porch, tongues drying with unspoken apologies.

Hilda refuses to compliment the sharp richness of the tea, the bitter earthiness of it.

She’d already tasted something similar just three minutes ago.

She says nothing when Zelda drops a sugar cube into her porcelain.

Clutches the delicate China between her dirt-covered hands, keeps sipping.

The sugar helps.

She doesn’t say so, but she does hold out her cup for a bit more.

When Zelda obliges, she finally meets her older sister’s gaze.

They do not break, even when Hilda’s cup runs over.

Zelda sets the gaiwan on its plate. Neither of them flinches at glass clinking together.

Clean, black-lacquered fingers reach out, brush some crumbling mulch from Hilda’s cheek.

They linger on the ducket of her chin, tip it up.

“I did miss you.”

Whispered confession.

Hilda gulps, tastes oolong in her lungs.

Zelda watches the trail of her throat.

“I gave up tea because of it.”

She’s not sure when or how, but currently only a centimeter separates Zelda’s nose from her dusty brow.

She wonders if she’s going to be hugged.

“You gave up tea for me?”

Zelda looks at her truly then, eyes catch on new feelings, and there’s something more secret than the emperor’s forbidden city in her eternal blues.

Zelda gulps, tongue darting pink over her shocking red mouth, opens up to say—

“Sisters? What are you doing out here?”

They dart far apart as Edward steps out onto the porch.

His hands go on hips as he surveys the scene. Dirt on the steps, a tea set between reconciling sisters, a freshly turned grave out in the cemetery.

He shakes his head in brotherly disregard.

“Well — this certainly takes me back to old times. It’s like you two never left at all.”

He goes back in the house with a chuckle and a head shake.

The sisters stay outside, stay apart.

They finish their tea in silence.

Zelda goes to bed.

Hilda runs a bath.

Old times, perhaps, but the flavoring’s changed.

 

~*~

 

The second time Zelda makes Hilda tea, it is an oddly tempered night.

Rain patters down on the roof, trails in competing rivulets down the windows, pools quietly somber in dusky minds.

The sisters sit close and silent as they put together a spell.

In technicality, it’s a puzzle, but after they’ve connected the pieces, the foundations of their house will settle a little stronger.

They’ve lived here for ages and know the rules. Any house over five centuries old has its demands.

Some require ghosts and ghouls to keep out crowds, some ask sacrifices. They are lucky the Spellman manor only requires hobbies performed every so often.

It is for the house that Zelda had learned to knit.

She would have preferred sacrifices.

But when Hilda had worn her first-attempt socks, collected the scarves and lumpy cardigans, she’d felt something warm and fierce in her chest and continued on until she’d mastered every looped stitch.

They make puzzles together when they’re feeling particularly affectionate or the house is particularly cantankerous. Silly manor seems to relish their peace more than anything else.

When a leak develops above the kitchen table, dripping cold and grumpy on Zelda’s forehead, she demands first choice on their puzzle.

She likes clouds or dark birds in thousands of pieces—appreciates the challenge. Hilda likes gardens and lighthouses in less than eight hundred—likes faster results.

Zelda is good mood enough to feel charitable, chooses a compromise tonight.

Birds in a garden, 1,500 squares.

Hilda starts the parlor fire, and they settle in.

They’ve got the frame nearly connected when Zelda starts to notice.

Hilda’s nose is crinkling, concentration in the form of a tongue tip poking out the corner of her mouth.

Soot from the fireplace adorns her forehead. Absentminded, she must have swiped her face and not noticed the dust.

In sisterly contentment, Zelda thumbs it off.

Electricity zaps, Hilda thrums under her finger pads.

The gray leaves her face. The hand does not.

Zelda wonders if they’ve gone domestic.

There’s a wriggle and a breath gasp, and Hilda’s cottoned hip is brushing hers.

The hand not stuck on her sister’s apple cheek clutches the back of the couch. Almost an embrace if it weren’t so open.

“You’ve got my corner piece.” Zelda states, as though her hands are not already full up of couch fabric and sister flesh, as though she’s going to reach for anything other than Hilda.

She’s never been one for subtlety.

Hilda knows this and grins, too drunk on their current calm to be wary. There’s mischief and a dare and something terribly like desire in her eyes.

“Come get it then.”

Unexpected challenge, she flares in acquiescence.

Lip rouge nearly meets lip rouge, they’ve been leaning together since the beginning.

She’s almost there, almost captured that dastardly mouth, when—

“Aunties, come quick!”

Ambrose’ shout shakes from the basement.

Hilda sighs, Zelda almost tastes the mint breath lost to her.

Then Hilda stands, mutters something like “the dramatics of warlocks grow with every generation, I swear...” and stomps down to nephew’s aid.

Zelda’s fist pounds harsh on the poor couch cushions, frustration bucketing down.

Stands up after a moment of validated sulking, steps to the kitchen to gain composure.

Her eyes catch the kettle and oil-clay pot. Tea calls, offers consolation.

When Hilda comes back, unabashed Ambrose in tow, the gaiwan is ready to pour.

Rich and heady, it lingers on the soul, no sugar necessary.

They muster through their puzzle for most the night.

Glasses clinking, wishful thinking.

They sit on the couch, still so close. Ambrose stays on the carpet.

He watches pinkies brush then skitter away, and knows he’s caught something unspoken.

He is too lonely to be selfless, stays. Sips his tea slow.

The night stays raining, but the hollowness is filling up happy.

The Spellmans drink their tea and silently hunger for more.

 

~*~

 

Third time’s got no initial charm. Zelda’s got no sleep.

Hilda is having a date with a man.

Fourth one, in fact.

When the witching hour strikes, and she still isn’t home, Zelda fills the gaiwan.

She drinks the first infusion too soon, let’s it burn her taste buds and doesn’t hiss at the singe.

The second infusion is ruined by her still smarting tongue.

The third infusion is kinder. Though initial tastes are limpid, they linger soft and they stay. It soothes.

She is almost calm when Hilda wanders in at 2, sits right down next to her and looks for all the world like she’s lost.

“I just broke up with Cee.”

It ends as a question, as if Hilda herself cannot believe it.

Zelda bites down her questions, shuts up the glee.

She gets a new set of tea leaves and an extra cup.

She sets them down gentle, and Hilda nearly blubbers.

“I don’t understand. I mean, first dates are always awkward, aren’t they?”

She rolls her eyes at Zelda’s blank stare.

“They _are_. Though the second one was perfect, I swear it was.”

Zelda’s stomach turns.

“But this one... I don’t know. It just didn’t feel right.”

Stomach clenches in protective panic.

“If he did anything untoward, I swear to Satan—"

“Keep your blood pressure down, Zelda. He was a perfect gentleman.”

Still, Hilda’s lips pucker.

“I’m just not sure I prefer gentle men.”

Zelda chokes on chai.

“Then what,” she manages, though her regular timbre has a bit of graveled hope and hot water stuck in it. “Do you prefer?”

Hilda shrugs and sips tea.

Pauses.

Her face lights up like a new year.

“This is the second infusion. You gave it to _me_.”

Said solidly. No question in her statement, and Zelda’s cheeks flame. 

She blames it on the bitter tea she’s still waiting to drink.

“Yes, well...”

Hilda leans over, bold as brass or black tea, and kisses Zelda’s forehead.

When she starts to retreat, Zelda’s hands shoot out on their own accord, hold Hilda’s surprised little face between the palms.

The butterfly eyelashes flutter, both hearts pitter-pat.

She cannot wait any longer.

She kisses Hilda’s soft curving nose.

The collective sigh is sugary.

She kisses the cheeks, thumbs brushing away lipstick stains, still leaving smears.

When she hovers over the aching mouth, she halts. Strains to hear any interrupting feet.

Silence in the kitchen.

She kisses Hilda and pours out all the affection she’s able.

Hilda tastes like loose leaf and peach blossom lip stain and faintly like a mortal man’s cologne.

Zelda bites down hard, then only tastes Hilda’s moan.

They are awkwardly positioned, shoulders angled and shoved into the chair back, knees knocked together and not slotting properly, arms reaching in a way that invites embrace but mostly cramping.

Their kiss is desperate and hurried, so terrified of interruption.

It is alright, it is their first.

If Hilda be willing, Zelda will make sure it is not their only.

Sabrina’s shoes clatter down the stairs.

Zelda sighs and leans back, reluctant hands wiping lipstick more thoroughly off Hilda’s cheeks.

Sabrina stops when Zelda calls her into the kitchen, sheepish in her attempt of sneaking out.

She has half a mind to ground their niece forever, especially once she sees the book of demon summoning tucked in Sabrina’s satchel, but Hilda’s got their fingers tangled together under the tablecloth. 

The tenderness lingers. 

Satan for once on Sabrina’s side, she is allowed to traipse into the night, though Zelda keeps the book. 

They wait once the door closes, count the silences. 

When the night promises no more impromptu pauses, Hilda turns. 

Zelda turns too. 

“Sister,” Hilda wets her lips and Zelda remembers the taste. “Shall I start another pot of tea?”

If Hilda can hide behind euphemism, she can hide her smile. 

Still, she empties her gaiwan and waits for something new. 

“Yes. I think that will satisfy.”

**Author's Note:**

> this story did not end up being the story i initially tried to write.  
> i still kinda like it, but i think i may need to take a break for a bit.  
> hopefully not, but maybe :3


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